


He Lies Slain

by gayalondiel



Series: watsons_woes July 2011 challenge [25]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-28
Updated: 2011-07-28
Packaged: 2017-10-21 21:53:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/230264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gayalondiel/pseuds/gayalondiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock wakes in hospital to find John at his bedside, but bad news is coming.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He Lies Slain

**Author's Note:**

> watsons_woes LJ community posted a daily prompt challenge for July 2011 wherein you had to respond within 24 hours. These are my responses, so they are a little hasty and unpolished. Also damned weird.
> 
> July 25: Supernatural
> 
>  **Spoilers:** GREA  
>  **Warnings:** Character Death  
>  **Disclaimer:** The Holmes characters fall in the public domain: This version falls under the creative control of Messers Moffatt and Gatiss, and the BBC. No ownership is implied or inferred. This is done for love only.

“Hey there, sleepyhead.”

Sherlock blinked awake through a grey blur. His eyes were dry and his head felt like it was wadded with cotton wool, and his body ached in more places than he could bear to count. Looking towards the voice, he saw John sat there, smiling at him.

“You’ve been out for two days,” he said softly. “Gave us all a bit of a fright. I think you’re going to be fine, though, in time.”

“You?” Sherlock croaked. He glanced to see if there was water but John didn’t seem to notice.

“As you see,” he said with a smile.

“Moriarty?”

“He got out before the explosion, but Mycroft’s people picked him up. They have him in custody.”

“They won’t hold him. The charges won’t stick... I need to talk to Lestrade...”

John held out a hand over Sherlock’s arm, not touching but restraining nevertheless, as Sherlock began to move. “He’ll be here in a minute,” he said. “Relax, you need to get well. Mycroft is up to keeping an eye on Moriarty until you’re up to speed, and they won’t let you work for a few days anyway.”

“I’m fine,” replied Sherlock, and was surprised to find himself meaning it. He was sore and pained, tired and foggy, but his mental itinerary told him nothing was critically injured, and his thought process was picking up speed already. John was smiling at him, although there was a slightly resigned quality to his expression and something unquantifiably sad behind his eyes.

“You will be,” he said gently. “Give it a couple of days, though, eh? Lestrade will say the same, and Mycroft.”

“I don’t listen to Lestrade and Mycroft.”

“I know. But just this once, listen to me?” John glanced up at the hideously bright curtain surrounding Sherlock’s bed. “Lestrade’s coming now. I’ll be here a little longer.”

Sherlock was going to say that he knew John would stay, and also that it was unnecessary, when the curtain was pulled back and Lestrade peered around it. He looked ashen-faced, tired beyond his years, and the relief of seeing Sherlock awake only seemed to lift that a fraction. He called a nurse who hurried over to check the various machines surrounding the bed, promised to summon a consultant, and left again. John and Lestrade watched in silence, John looking curious, Lestrade grim.

“Sherlock,” said Lestrade, with the air of someone carrying a very delicate bomb. “I need to... there’s bad news, I’m afraid.”

 _Moriarty_ , Sherlock’s brain informed him.

“It’s John,” said Lestrade. Beside him, John caught Sherlock’s eye and raised a finger to his lips. “He... Jesus. He didn’t make it, Sherlock. He was alive when we got there, and we think he was awake to make sure you were alright, but there were too many internal injuries. He died in theatre, about an hour after you got to hospital.”

The world seemed to go grey momentarily around Sherlock, and buzzing filled his ears. Lestrade continued to talk but although his lips kept moving Sherlock could not make out the words. The only thing of colour or note in the world seemed to be John, in his pale checked shirt, black cardigan, blue jeans, watching quietly with his head tilted to one side. Sherlock frowned at him. Now that he looked, there was an air of lightness about him, something clear and bright, an indefinable difference to his usual solid presence. He met Sherlock’s gaze and held it.

A hand landed on Sherlock’s shoulder and he jumped, looking up to see Lestrade looking down at him. There were more lines on his face than Sherlock had ever seen there.

“You going to be okay?” he asked in a soft but still gruff voice.

“Yes,” replied Sherlock, surprising himself when the word came out broken. He tried again. “Yes, I’ll be. I’ll be fine. Did... has someone called Harry?”

“Donovan has gone to her house,” replied Lestrade. “Look, you seem... I’ll give you a minute, shall I? I’ll be just out here if you need anything.” Sherlock nodded vaguely, then raised his eyes just as Lestrade was slipping out.

“Mycroft?” he asked. Lestrade nodded.

“He’s around,” he said. “I don’t know who his people are, exactly, but they managed to lay hands on that Moriarty bloke and they’ve taken over an entire local station to hold him. He’s been on the phone more or less constantly, but he said he wouldn’t go far. Do you want me to try and find him?”

Sherlock shook his head, and Lestrade took that as a dismissal and slipped outside the curtain, tugging it shut behind him. Sherlock turned back to John.

“So,” he said.

“So,” agreed John.

“Internal injuries?”

“Mm. Kidneys, liver, vital things got bashed around a bit too much, I’m afraid.” Now that he listened for it, there was a slightly flat quality to the sound of John’s voice, like it wasn’t interacting with the acoustic surrounding them.

“You’re dead then?”

“I guess so, yes.”

“So this is all in my head?”

“Search me.” John shrugged easily. “I can’t answer that, Sherlock. I didn’t want to go until I knew you were going to be okay.”

“Go where?”

“I’m not sure,” John glanced away, looking at something that Sherlock knew he would not see if he tried. “There’s something... I don’t think you can know until you go. I can sort of see it, but it’s like trying to catch sparks from a bonfire. If you try to hold it, it vanishes.”

Sherlock thought about that for a long moment. “Do you want to go?”

“Yes,” replied John. “But not yet. I’ll sit with you for a little bit longer.”

“How long can you stay?”

“As long as you need me,” said John. “So, about half an hour?”

“Don’t...”

“I’m kidding,” John added hastily, and there was laughter in his voice. “You’ll be fine, you always have been. And if it’s too much hard work, you can delete me.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Thanks.” John blushed lightly. Sherlock wouldn’t have thought that ghosts could blush, not having any circulation, but until today he would have said that the concept of ghosts was absurd, and so let it slide. “What I’m saying is, you don’t need me to survive, but I think you need someone to talk to until you find a new skull, or another flatmate, or something. And I’ll stick around, as long as I can.”

“Just as you like,” said Sherlock. John grinned at him, and against his instincts he smiled back. “You don’t sound like you’re in my head,” he commented.

“Does it matter?” asked John.

“So long as you’re here?” Sherlock turned away, closed his eyes, counted to ten. He looked back, and there was John, still there, still smiling. “No, it doesn’t matter. I won’t ask you to stay forever but just... just a little longer?”

John nodded, and reached out to take his hand, but stopped at the last minute. Both of them stared at his fingertips and then Sherlock raised his own arm. John’s skin was cold, dull, and sent tingles through his nerves like touching dry ice, but he was there. Their fingers curled together and gripped tightly. John was still smiling.

“As long as I can,” he said.


End file.
